Some Things Still Remain
by Order of Arcadia
Summary: Companion fic to "Luke 15". Steve struggles with isolation, Bucky struggles with his guilt, and together they figure out what to do with their faith in the twenty-first century. No slash, Remembered AU, roughly pre-Avengers to pre-AoU. Christian themes.


**A/N: Whew. I think this one is finally ready. This goes out to Book Thief, Candaru, Cairi, Princess Starberry, Mellia Bee, Raven, a very sweet anonymous guest, and everyone else who read, reviewed, and enjoyed "Luke 15" and wanted to see more of Steve and Bucky being Christians. I have emotions.**

**The rating here might have puzzled you, but it's there for safety because Bucky has bad language and also because he'll be investigating the crucifixion in detail later. I hope you enjoy the story.**

* * *

**Some Things Still Remain**

_"You gonna be okay?"_

_"Yeah. Yeah, just...I had a date."_

When Steve stepped into the twenty-first century, everything was different.

The initial shock of running out into Times Square at least had him convinced. After that, they tried to break it to him slowly. S.H.I.E.L.D. set up some small, but comfortable living quarters in their facility—anything would have been larger than his Ma's apartment in Brooklyn, and more comfortable than a damp tent behind front lines—and explained everything they could through books and motion picture shows on very thin, small devices.

Steve read a lot, those days. Super-soldier memory meant he remembered all of it, but that didn't mean it was easy to adjust.

They provided what basic necessities they could right off the bat. Anything else was considered an allowance and had to be run through a list of authorities over the project, but he didn't ask for much, so most wishes were granted soon enough.

One of those wishes was a sketchbook, canvass, and paint set. They weren't the highest quality, but they were nicer than what he'd had as a kid, and he made good use of them.

Another of those wishes was a Bible.

Of course he was looking for nourishment. For truth, and comfort in things greater than himself. But he'd be lying if he said that when he opened the heavy, leather-bound Book, his heart didn't sink a little.

They'd changed it too.

The words, anyway. They'd changed the words. There were no more _thou_s and _thee_s, no more _thy_s and _thine_s, no more _whosoever_s and _believeth_s.

Part of him wanted to slam the Book down on the coffee table and just go lie down. At least sleep hadn't changed across centuries, even if his bed had.

But he still forced himself to keep the Book open, to at least look up something he knew by heart.

_"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life."_

Well. It certainly was different. Less lyrical, for sure. If anything, this was closer to normal, conversational English that regular folks speak than he'd remembered the Bible to be. Somehow, it was clearer—time would tell whether he'd get used to that.

But most importantly of all, the message hadn't changed.

* * *

The store was tiny and quiet, lit by sunlight pouring through the wide windows over a variety of packed shelves. It was one of the first things he'd done as a free man, after S.H.I.E.L.D. released him, to come here and search.

_Christian bookstore_. Maybe he should have felt like he belonged here. Somehow, though, he still felt out of place.

He quickly discovered that they didn't just have a new translation of the Bible. They had lots of new translations of the Bible, all with different acronyms on the spines, and each one came in its own cacophony of sizes, shapes, and colors. The one he'd received from S.H.I.E.L.D. was marked NIV; the store had a lot of those. Too many.

Too many of everything.

Perhaps he shouldn't have turned down the clerk's offer for help, but he was too busy being embarrassed and overwhelmed. The sheer amount of everything made his head spin—and the prices made him want to wither up and crumble into his shoes.

It took him half an hour—maybe longer—and several breathers to find what he was looking for, but he finally did.

He shuffled the leather-bound Book gently out of its protective box, gingerly opened the gold-lined pages—and resisted releasing a small sigh of relief.

_"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."_

This one was marked KJV. This was it. He'd almost been afraid this new century had gotten rid of it. But there it was—in new, crisp ink, but the same old text, exactly as he remembered.

He thumbed through the pages, over epistles and proverbs and prophets, taking in the sight of the old text he knew so well.

It reminded him of old things. Good things. Catholic school with the nuns, a schoolyard filled with screams and laughter, and the day he met a firecracker of a boy with brown hair and a missing tooth. The chime of the chapel bell, pine pews, hymnals, and his ma's humble but sweet voice lifted in song.

Back in his day, he could have bought meals for a month with the twenty dollars he forked over for this book. It kind of made his stomach turn over. But even if the money had still been worth that much—which it wasn't—heck, even if he'd sold his house and spent a fortune to get this, it would have been worth it.

He stepped out into the sunlight with the little book clutched to his chest, and tucked it carefully into the compartment behind his motorcycle seat before he climbed on to head back home.

As the engine rumbled, the asphalt flew by underneath him, and the wind started to pick up and whistle past his ears, he took a deep breath of the crisp air and let it out.

Somehow, even after everything changes, some things still remain after all.

* * *

_"There's only one God, ma'am. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."_

Steve Rogers was a man of faith. That was his default.

Anyone else in his position would have struggled with very many things. Perhaps they'd question whether God was really there—or if He was, if He even cared at all, to rob loved ones and comfort and an entire century away so cruelly. Maybe they'd fret about whether or not their faith was truly "relevant" to the outside, to a world that had long since moved past the values it had once held true.

Steve didn't struggle with either of those things much. What bothered him most was the isolation. All of the sudden, his faith was considered a "personal persuasion" instead of the accepted truth—a truth in a sea of other truths, which only served to drown out what was truly true.

It infuriated him to no end. It made him feel small and helpless too. In the tiny prayer closet in the apartment, his frustrated plea was always the same.

"It's true. Why doesn't anyone believe the truth anymore?"

He tried out churches. Some were large and loud and filled with flashing lights and loud music that distracted him more than anything. (Normal sounds were overwhelming enough, going from deafness in one ear to super-soldier hearing; concerts like this with these electrical amplifiers were near ear-shattering.)

Other churches were small, homey, and familiar—and some, if he was lucky, still used hymnals. He sat in the back of a tiny Lutheran chapel one Sunday and just drank in the liturgy and tradition, but he somehow still felt alone, even in this place of solace from the world whirling a million miles an hour on the outside.

As life wound down to a lull, he began to find solace in routine; maybe it was another hold-over from the army, but it worked nonetheless. He'd read his Bible daily—sometimes twice a day—and take down notes, and he'd attend church in a small, old chapel on Sunday mornings.

Steve took solace in the fact that God had never changed, and would never change, even as the whole world around around him had. He took solace in the idea that surviving the plane crash wasn't an accident, and he was here for a purpose. He took solace in the fact that even when he felt inexpressibly lonely, he still had one Companion and Friend.

So if he was here for a purpose, it was only right to set about finding that purpose.

Maybe people saw him as stubborn and unwilling to change. To be honest, he didn't give them much reason to believe otherwise. He told Agent Romanoff there was only one God—albeit in a joke—within hours of meeting her, and he stuck to a strict moral code that frankly seemed to drive some people insane.

But as far as he was concerned, truth was truth, and he saw no reason to compromise on it.

The Avengers were swell companions—maybe even friends—maybe even a part of that purpose he was looking for. That they didn't agree on everything was to be expected; and yes, he did still feel alone in that. But in the daytime, and on the battlefield, at least he wasn't entirely alone.

Nights? Nights were another story.

There were times the nightmares pressed in too close; times when the weight of everything he'd lost became too much to bear. He'd wake up and weep, of course—sometimes cry until he couldn't breathe—but he didn't want to blame God.

He never wanted to blame God. He knew it was easy, but that's exactly why he didn't want to do it. That was the route of the lazy and the good-for-nothings, in his mind.

When the stock market crashed, his neighbors who didn't turn to the Lord for help instead cursed Him and turned to the bottle in His place. Steve got to see for himself how they turned out—how many of them fell off of train cars dead drunk, or just dead, or left their homes and families and just disappeared.

His ma never blamed God. Not for the death of her husband, not for the state of the country, and not for their own poor lot in life either. She kept her head high. She kept her gaze steady. She thanked her Provider whenever she could, and she taught Steve to do the same.

When she died, he made a solemn, unsaid vow to be like her.

But it was hard. It was hard, when she was gone—when everything was—when all that was left was the dark and the isolation and a bed that was too soft and the roiling ball of fire in his chest.

"I know you brought me here for a reason," he pleaded into the dark one night. It was late, and he was exhausted, and his eyes burned and his nose was clogged so badly he could hardly breathe. "I know you did. I just wish I didn't have to lose so much along the way. It's so much sometimes, and it hurts, and..."

His shoulders hitched. A new wave of heat and pressure smacked up against the backs of his eyes, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids and took a shivering breath.

"I'm sorry."

It was quiet. Deathly quiet. The occasional glow of passing headlights on the street below peeked around the window curtains.

Steve took a deep breath and raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't understand. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what you're planning. But whatever it is, whatever my part is in it, whatever reason you had to bring me here—"

He faced the ceiling and took a deep breath.

"I'm yours."

He shut his swollen eyes, letting them quiver as he felt small spots of heat delve a channel down his cheeks, and a small warmth formed in his chest. "Help me to trust you, please."

Some nights, he'd feel like he didn't have any answers. Some nights, he'd still feel like he had no answers—but he'd go to sleep with the distinct feeling that Someone powerful and kind wanted him to know He was there, and He still loved him, and it would all be all right someday.

Steve wrote Jeremiah 29:11 and Galatians 6:9 on small index cards and wedged them into the frame of his bathroom mirror. Sometimes, while he was brushing his teeth or shaving—if he happened to be cognizant in the morning—they would catch his eye again.

_"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"_

_"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will receive a harvest if we do not give up."_

He wouldn't give up. Not as long as there was truth to fight for, and not as long as he had breath in his body to keep him moving.

He was Steve Rogers. He could do this all day.

* * *

_"Truth is a matter of circumstance. It's not all things to all people. Neither am I."_

_"That's a hard way to live."_

_"It's a good way to not die, though."_

A lot of things happened around the fall of the Triskellion. It was probably one of the most ironic coincidences in the world that Steve had gotten tossed in with Natasha—but it did end up being what saved his life, and ten thousand others, too.

Personally, he had to disagree with her. There was only one truth, to his understanding, and if he had to die to keep it from being compromised, he would. But being with the Avengers—being in this crazy, upside-down future—had at least made him more compassionate. He understood where she was coming from.

If that made him a kinder person, good.

He'd need it.

* * *

The search for Bucky was grueling, but it was a walk in the park compared to what happened _after_ they found him. In the weeks after Steve took him into his apartment, everything got a whole lot more complicated and made a horrible amount of sense.

Bucky would wake up from nightmares every night, screaming like his skin was being scraped off his body. He'd lurk around the house during the day, trying desperately not to be seen, and flinch whenever Steve so much as frowned or stepped toward him.

Steve hadn't seen this much evil at work in such a small space since the war. His friend had been taken, tortured, brainwashed, enslaved, and stripped violently of everything that made him human. He didn't remember his faith in the God he believed in—hell, he didn't even remember _himself_. It simultaneously made Steve's heart sink into his stomach and made him want to set something on fire.

But it was only by the grace of God that Bucky had survived at all—that he'd come to Steve—that he was safe. It was only by the grace of God that he had the chance to rebuild.

As Steve got to thinking about it—after waking Bucky up from a horrible nightmare for the umpteenth time and letting him fall back into a fretful sleep in his arms—a small part of that purpose he'd been looking for began to slot into place.

"He kept me here for you."

Another card joined the ones on the mirror. _"Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not easily broken."_

* * *

Steve continued reading his Bible in the mornings. He'd read it to calm down after Bucky's nightmares, too, grounding him into something ancient and unchanging and bigger than his own fears and worries. It wasn't long before Bucky took notice.

It was late one night, after the horrible routine nightmare, and Steve was exhausted. He'd decided to crash in Bucky's bed instead of going back to his own room, just in case anything happened again—and anyway, he was too exhausted to move.

Bucky had fallen back asleep beside him, and Steve was just reading to calm down. He was at the crucifixion story. It wasn't the easiest read, but at least it was familiar.

Motion at the corner of his eye and the creak of weight against the headboard caught his attention. Bucky had sat up, and was looking at him.

"Hey," Steve whispered in slight surprise. "You're still up?"

Bucky simply nodded. His expression was quiet and unreadable.

Well, of course he was. The bedside lamp was giving off too much light for either of them to sleep. Steve felt sheepish. "I'm keeping you up, aren't I?"

He hesitated. He didn't want to stop reading—heaven knows he'd be too full of his own thoughts to fall asleep like this—but stronger than that was the urge to make sure Bucky got enough rest. He carefully bookmarked his place with the satin ribbon and reached for the pull string. "I'm sorry, Bucky, I'll—"

"It's fine," was the murmured answer.

Steve paused, his hand still under the pull string, and turned around. "You're sure?"

Bucky didn't answer exactly, but stared down at the Book in Steve's lap. "What is it?"

Steve caught his breath, and then a wave of sadness crashed over him. That Bucky took an interest in the Bible was fantastic; that he'd forgotten what it was, and needed to ask, was the disheartening part.

But he finally managed to collect himself and answer, "It's my Bible. I'm reading Luke."

Bucky shot him a Look. He communicated a lot through Looks these days. Words seemed to come a little more difficult. But this one was just enough of a combination of interest, curiosity, intensity, and annoyance that it made Steve's heart lunge in excitement.

"Do you want to hear it?" Steve hardly kept himself from leaning forward, but he couldn't keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Bucky paused, nodded, and slid back under the covers, pulling them up to his chin.

So Steve read the parables to him that night—starting with those that had been his inspiration and guides for these long months. The lost sheep. The lost coin. The lost son. Lost, and found again, and welcomed home.

Bucky slept until the morning that night. So it started a tradition. Steve would read aloud, at nights when they were going to sleep or anytime Bucky wanted to join him in the mornings, and it was something calm and simple that they could do together, building trust, and reintroducing Bucky to these very old, very important truths.

Steve continued attending church. Bucky didn't go with him. As a rule, Bucky didn't like to leave the apartment and be seen; not yet, at least. But he accepted the weekly schedule of Steve's absence on Sunday mornings, and Steve would return with lunch for the both of them to find that Bucky had kept careful, cold-fisted vigil over the house in the meantime.

In some things, Bucky was a deadly, calculating warrior. In others, he was as meek and trusting as a child. Steve just hoped every day to see a flicker of recognition in Bucky's eyes that he remembered some of these old things—but for a long time, nothing came.

Sometimes, if he let himself think about it for too long, Steve would find himself fretting about it. Did Bucky's salvation count if he didn't remember it? What if he decided he didn't want to believe it all after everything he'd gone through? What if all this work was going to be for nothing?

But that's when he'd have to tell himself to calm down, or the Word would stop him in his tracks instead. _"Nevertheless, God's solid foundation stands firm, sealed with this inscription: 'The Lord knows who are his.'"_

Steve had to remind himself that God knew if his friend was really saved. He had to remind himself that God had taken care of them both so far, and He wouldn't stop now. He had to remind himself that despite all screaming evidence to the contrary, it was all in His hands, and He'd promised that in this life or the next, it would all be okay.

Steve had to accept that as much as he'd like to have control over this situation, he really didn't have any at all. So he just surrendered what little control he thought he had and continued to read Bible stories to Bucky, who absorbed them like a sponge and wide eyes like an enraptured child.

* * *

When Bucky met the Avengers, Steve was certain of one thing: it would either go very well, or _very_ badly.

Fortunately for Manhattan and the world at large, it went well. Bucky was in a good mental spot that day. Clint was apparently responsible for introducing him to Nerf guns, which resulted in an all-out war for domination of the Common Floor and Bucky making friends.

Steve let out the breath he'd been holding for several months.

With S.H.I.E.L.D. gone, there was no more steady salary to pay Steve's rent on the apartment, so they accepted Tony's general invitation to occupy one of the vast, superfluous floors on his Tower as long as need might be. There weren't many boxes of belongings that needed to be packed in the move from the apartment, but Steve took a special pride in labeling some of the cardboard boxes in Sharpie, _Bucky's_.

The index cards moved with them into the Tower bathroom mirror.

* * *

Steve had read the crucifixion story to Bucky a couple of times. The first was mildly disastrous. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration, but they hadn't managed to get past the cross. Bucky had become distressed, got up, and left the room, and he seemed exceptionally quiet for the rest of the day. Steve didn't have the stomach to push him.

In the attempts after that—between which Steve always made sure to leave at least a couple months—the pattern continued, albeit to a lesser extent. Bucky would become distressed as soon as the trial started, and then he would be relaxed and pleased again by the empty tomb.

As his general cognitive faculties began to return, Bucky started to progress past simple emotional responses into asking questions. It tested Steve, really, and forced him to think about this familiar old passage in ways he hadn't before.

* * *

_"How...how did he do that?"_

_They're sitting on the couch in the den in the apartment. Steve looks up from his Bible to clarify, "Come back from the dead?"_

_Bucky nods. His hands are folded between his knees._

_"Well, to be honest—I don't exactly know how. But we saw him bring Lazarus and that little girl back from the dead. We know he's more powerful than death is. So if he's the stronger one, then even if he died, I guess it couldn't keep him down for all that long."_

_Bucky nods again, seeming to think this over._

* * *

_"Why did he come here?"_

_"Sorry?" Steve looks up and across the coffee table._

_Bucky is seated on the other couch in their Tower living room, staring at the books and papers in front of them with eyebrows furrowed. "Why didn't he just stay up there and be God? Would have been better than dealing with the likes of us."_

_Steve thinks it over for a second, rubbing the thin page between his thumb and finger. "Yeah. Yeah, for him, it would have. But he said it himself that he came to save the world. The only way he could do that was to die, so we wouldn't have to."_

_Bucky frowns. "But they messed it up."_

_"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Yeah, we messed it up. We disobeyed. He shouldn't have come for us. But he did. Because—because he loves us that much." Quietly, he stares down at the page. "Takes a lot to be willing to die for someone."_

_Bucky is quiet, and he doesn't answer, but the expression he gives when he looks at Steve is now curious and filled with awe._

* * *

_Steve is eating his breakfast. For all he knows, Bucky is researching something on the Tower's lightning-fast wifi. But Bucky steps away from the laptop, raking his fingers through his hair, and begins to pace._

_Steve lifts his head with a frown. "Buck?"_

_Bucky's breathing is heavy. "They hung him. From his arms."_

_Steve lowers his mug back down to the marble counter, concern etching lines in his face._

_Bucky is poking his own wrists—a metal finger tapping against flesh. "Stabbed him through the wrists. And the ankles. No other way, if they wanted him to stay up there. Just...nails. Huge ones, like rods." He pauses, biting his lip. "And they hung him."_

_Steve's frown softens. Bucky always seems to take this story very personally._

_"You know what happens when you're hung by your arms?" There's a creeping terror in Bucky's wide eyes. "You can't breathe. Your body is heavy, and you get exhausted, and you can't pull yourself up on those goddamn nails to take a breath. He would have gone quicker, too, because they tore up his back and pounded those thorns into his skull...!"_

_Steve stumbles off the bar stool and up to his friend's side. "Whoa, whoa. Buck. Hey."_

_Bucky's head flies up as soon as Steve's hand lands on his shoulder—but something wild and stormy melts out of his eyes as he looks at Steve. He shakes his head. "He knew. He knew, didn't he?"_

_"Knew what, Buck?" Steve doesn't know if his heart will break or pound out of his chest._

_"What it feels like. When..." Bucky's hand shakily squeezes at his left shoulder through his shirt, right where Steve knows the seam is where metal meets skin. "When they're tearing your body apart, and there isn't a thing you can do about it."_

_Steve can feel his chest ache. He doesn't say a word, just wraps his arms around Bucky and holds him as tight as he physically can._

_If he could, he'd set fire to HYDRA and everyone who'd ever done his friend harm. But he knows that wouldn't take away his pain. Nothing can. Not entirely. It's all they can do to chip away at it, ever so slowly, in moments like these, time and time again._

_Bucky's voice is muffled in Steve's shoulder, and it sounds watery. "He said forgive 'em. That they don't know what they're doing."_

_Steve sighs so deeply that it aches in his chest. "Hard to forgive, isn't it?"_

_"Yeah..." Bucky sounds distracted. "I—I didn't know what I was doing either."_

_Steve lifts his head in surprise._

* * *

"Steve."

"Yeah, Buck."

"When you said he died for our sins...I think I get it, but what does it mean, exactly?"

Steve sat back on the Tower couch, thinking about it for a moment, and gave a slight exhale. "Well...you remember the sacrifices in the Old Testament? God said that sin is a crime that requires the death penalty, but he still didn't want to kill people. So the Jews would kill a lamb or a bull or something in their place, and then God would consider them forgiven. It's kind of like that."

Bucky frowned. "But that ended with the churches. They stopped after he left."

"Exactly. Because Christ took care of it once and for all. The Jews had to keep going back every year and killing sheep, but John the Baptist called Jesus 'the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world'. Everything that everyone has ever done wrong, and will ever do wrong, in all of history...his life was enough of a price for all of it. For all of us. And all he asks us to do is believe that he's got it, and he'll forgive everything."

Bucky's eyes were wide, almost pleading, but there was the slightest crease between his eyebrows. "Everything?"

Steve's chest ached a little as he realized what his friend meant, and he sighed. "Yeah, Buck. Everything."

Bucky was staring at his hands—hands on which he no doubt imagined the blood of people he hardly remembered. "Do you think," he rasped, "he'd even forgive _me_, Steve? After everything?"

That's when Steve realized his chance.

He scooted forward softly, his actions carefully controlled, and laid his hand over Bucky's metal one where he could see it. He tried not to betray the excitement he felt inside, but if it did show at all, it was probably in the twinkle in his eyes. "Do you want to ask him and find out?"

Bucky looked up, ocean-blue eyes full of longing and pain like an old scar—and for the first time since the war, the first time since he'd come in out of the rain, Steve saw in his best friend's eyes a little spark of hope.

* * *

Bucky was in his room.

He'd borrowed Steve's Bible. He always did, for things like this. After all, Steve had two and they were around each other enough that he hadn't bothered to ask for his own.

Steve had offered to walk him through it, but Bucky had insisted it was something he had to do alone.

He knew what the Book said. There was just something he had to take care of first.

He turned the pages to a familiar verse, just checking that his otherwise fickle memory served him right.

_"If you declare with your mouth, 'Jesus is LORD', and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved."_

There it was. Exactly as he remembered. No ambiguity about it. In a way, he couldn't help but feel that ambiguity would have been a little less terrifying.

"That's it," he said softly. The Person he was addressing could hear him no matter how loud he spoke; or, if he didn't speak at all. "It's true. It's true, isn't it?"

He sighed and set the Book down beside him on the bed. "I want to believe it. I think I did, once. But it was easy then. I hadn't really done anything but look at a dame wrong, maybe, or think about stealing from the grocer when money got tight. But now..."

Visions of hollow eyes and open mouths flashed through his mind, red-tinted distant screams and choking. He clutched his aching forehead. "God."

Steve would have reprimanded him for language. Bucky didn't suppose the Lord appreciated his name being used like that either.

"Sorry."

He shook his head to clear it, sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. The vague patterns had entertained him for hours when he couldn't sleep, and they'd keep him away from his demons for a little while now too.

"You'll just take it?" he asked past the ceiling. "Everything I've done, and you still want me?

"It can't be that simple." He shook his head, face screwing up. "God, it can't be. You can see what I've done, you can see what I've become. You know everyone I've killed, and I don't even remember them all!"

The screams crept a little closer, so he pulled his knees up under his chin and his arms over his head to block them out.

"I oughta die for it all or worse," he croaked into his knees. "But you'll just...take it? Is that really what you want?"

That wasn't the real question. He lifted his eyes and peered over his knees at the carpet as it got a little blurry in front of him. The next question came out as a whisper.

"Am _I_ really what you want?"

There wasn't an immediate answer. No bright light, no voice from Heaven, no burning bush. Just the Book, and what it said, and his own doubts. Bucky uncurled himself and let his feet hang off the side of the mattress, a few inches from the floor.

"I want to believe it," he whispered. "I want to be free. I want to believe you can do this, you can take it all, all the hurt, all the guilt, everything, but I can't...I'm...I..."

The hot pressure behind his eyes was becoming overwhelming. "Please," he choked out, as the first tears formed on his eyelids. "Please, I'm begging you. I'll do whatever you want. I'll do anything. I have to get out, I can't live under it all anymore. I have to get out, I have to get out! Please, please, please..."

* * *

_"James._

_"James!_

_"James, can you hear me?"_

_It's dark. The door is shut. He's in a small room...a closet. There's a slat of light under the door and a voice on the other side. He's small, small, and trying to make himself smaller among coats that smell like mothballs._

_"James," calls his mother, "why are you in the closet?"_

_The door opens, and she's bent over him, her tall form seeming dark with the sunlight glowing behind her. He won't come out at first, but when she succeeds in coaxing him, he breaks down into tears._

_His little voice is wailing as he tells his ma he didn't mean to, he was just playing and the candle knocked over and he burned it, and he didn't know what to do and he knows ma has company coming over and he's sorry. His tiny body is so racked with sobs that each one shakes his whole chest and he's gasping sharply for breath._

_Ma scoops him up in her arms, and the sweet scent of her perfume envelops him like a blanket._

_She thanks him for telling her. She tells him that she loves him. She assures him that there's no harm done, and that she's just glad he's not hurt._

_He's sniveling, but much calmer now, and asks through hitched breaths if he'll be punished._

_No, she says. But he might have to shovel snow for the neighbors to earn enough money for a new tablecloth, seeing as he burned a hole in the old one._

_He wants to believe her, of course, but he's afraid. So, he asks, Why not? After all, he's been bad._

_She answers that he's her son. She answers that it was an accident, and he didn't know what he was doing. She answers that she is the mother, and mothers get to make the rules, and she accepts his apology. She said he won't be punished, and as her son, all he has to do is to trust her._

_Moreover, she says she loves him, and that ought to be answer enough._

_So he sinks into his mother's shoulder, wraps his little arms around her neck, and trusts._

* * *

_He's on the Helicarrier. His mind is in scrambled pieces, all of them desperately trying to fit together to make some sort of sense._

_The face of the man underneath him is scarred and bruised, bleeding from scratches on his cheek and lip and blotched purple around one eye. Something deep within him tells him it's wrong. Who did this? They must be punished. This wrong must be avenged._

_But that's when his mind panics, and that's when horror crashes over him like cold water, because no no no NO IT WAS YOU IT WAS YOU WHO DID THIS THIS IS WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG NO NO NO NO NO_

_And yet the nameless man—the one with the face that makes his shattered mind scream with a thousand memories—the one that he'd beaten within an inch of his life—looks at him with kindness and whispers, "I'm with you 'til the end of the line."_

_Something crashes. The nameless man falls through the glass floor, down towards the river, and for a moment it's all he can do to hang there from a shattered metallic beam and watch._

_It takes a lot to be willing to die for someone..._

* * *

_It's the first time he's heard this story. Steve's voice is calm and somber; too calm, almost, for this subject matter. The story pulls him in and grips him, holds him there, even has he desperately tries to pull away._

_As if in a feverish nightmare, he feels his past torture meld with the stabbing of nails through wrists that weren't his own. He hears hoarse screaming, and he isn't sure if it's his own as a metal clamp around his head electrifies his brain, or if it belongs to another man whose back is torn open by spikes in a nine-tailed whip._

_He can't breathe. He can't breathe, and he feels like he's dying, and they're all around him, looking on with nauseating, sadistic pleasure as he labors to stay alive right in front of them. He hates them. He hates every single one of them and wishes they'll all go to hell, but someone else in his place cries out, "Forgive them! They don't know what they're doing!"_

_It's dark in the middle of the afternoon. The earth shakes and the sky splits open. There's a dead man hanging on a tree._

_He has to tear himself away. He can't finish the story. Frankly, he doesn't know what to do with it. Steve looks disappointed, but doesn't approach him about it again._

_He found the book again later that day, sneaking it under Steve's nose, and read the end of the story._

"He is not here. He has risen!"

_He sat in a bewildered stupor for the rest of the day._

* * *

Bucky had been crying like faucets. The Bible, too close to the edge of his bed, bumped into his knee and slipped off and onto the floor with a thump. Bucky's breath hitched, and he barely managed to swipe the tears out of his eyes so he could bend down and pick it up again.

The Book had fallen open on its back, and as Bucky pulled it up and into his lap, he couldn't help his sore eyes going wide at what he read.

_What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?_

It was like a challenge. Like a challenge to the way he was thinking, asking, "who are you to say whether or not you may be forgiven?" But it wasn't a challenge out of malice, or anger, or tyranny; but out of warmth, power, compassion, and love.

_Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. Who then is the one that condemns? No one. Christ Jesus who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us._

For me? He's praying for _me_...?

Bucky had wrapped his head around the fact that Jesus rose from the dead. He'd wrapped his head around the fact that he'd gone through the clouds back where he came from. But it hadn't occurred to him—and it hit him like a freight train loaded up with bricks—that the same Son of God was not only still alive now, but pleading for him from Heaven.

_Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us._

Trouble...hunger...nakedness...blood...he'd known all of these things, known them quite well. If they couldn't keep him from forgiveness—if even They who wiped his mind weren't powerful enough to damn him for eternity—if this Book called him a conqueror—!

_For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord._

Then, it was quiet.

Pin-drop quiet.

Bucky could hear his own labored breathing and feel his own weight on the mattress, surrounded by the silence of the room.

He was alone.

But it very, very much felt like someone was watching—and watching intently—with power and deep interest and so, so, so much love.

_"Nothing will be able to separate us..."_

He took a deep breath and lifted his head. His nose was clogged and there were tears running down his cheeks into the scraggly beard.

"Okay," he whispered, and his voice was watery.

He collapsed backwards onto the mattress, panting heavily like he'd just run a marathon. He stared up at the ceiling. It looked exactly the same.

"Okay."

He pressed the heels of both palms into his eyes. One of them was warm on his eyelid, the other one metallic and cold.

"Okay, I get it," he choked out.

And something like a tight, tangled knot that had been coiled in his stomach ever since Steve brought him in from the rain began to unravel as he breathed, through something that was half like a sob and half like a laugh, "Thank you."

He rolled over and gripped his pillow, but when he wept again it was calmer, and it felt like he'd been found and washed clean and made ten pounds lighter.

* * *

When Bucky stepped out the door, his head felt a little light and off-balance. Motion caught the corner of his eye, and he looked over slowly.

Steve stood in the living room, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in front of the couch, staring at Bucky with something between hope and caution and worry and an anxious joy.

Bucky opened his mouth and paused. What exactly could he say to describe what just happened? He couldn't really think of anything, so he just smiled instead, and let that explain it for him.

Steve absolutely lit up. He crossed the room in flying bounds and crashed into Bucky with an enormous hug. Bucky laughed, coughed on his clogged-up tears, and threw his arms around Steve's shoulders, holding on tight as Steve tried to crush his ribs and lift him up onto his toes.

Steve was laughing too. He dropped Bucky back onto his feet, and they grinned at each other breathlessly for a second.

"You did it?" asked Steve.

"Yeah."

"He forgave you?"

Bucky couldn't smile wide enough. "Yeah."

Steve grinned like it would break his face and pressed his forehead into Bucky's. Bucky couldn't help the little, low laugh that sprung out of him.

"I knew it!" Steve was laughing, but tears were welling up in his eyes. "I knew you would."

Bucky resisted the urge to box his ears. "You're acting like you were worried."

"Well, I was." As soon as he said it, Steve immediately looked sheepish, as if he'd just admitted a big secret.

Bucky took one look at the expression on his friend's face and smirked. He was going to Heaven someday, and this big, earnest, stupid punk would be right there with him.

Now that really would be a good deal, wouldn't it?

Bucky gave a little snort of laughter, and Steve grinned, and then Bucky threw his arms around his neck and would have held on for a whole lot longer if he could.

His chin in his best friend's shoulder, he murmured, "Steve."

"Hm?"

"Can I get my own Bible?"

Well, it had taken upwards of half an hour, but once Steve had finally calmed down they took a motorcycle ride into town to a store where, Steve explained, he'd bought his own Bible a few years ago.

Bucky walked out into the sunshine with a blue faux-leather book clutched to his chest. He kept the book safe in the drawer of his bedside table, and he read it every morning and evening, just like Steve.

He'd still deal with the guilt. There were still those horrendous nights that he'd wake up screaming, from the memory of blood on his hands that he'd forgotten he even had. But whenever he was tempted to get low about himself, there was always that quiet voice whispering, if he was humble enough to listen:

_"Son, you are forgiven."_

* * *

Winter passed. Spring came. The bathroom mirror continued to collect index cards. Steve went to brush his teeth one morning when he noticed a brand new note, but not in his own handwriting—and when he read it, he just had to smile until his heart ached.

_"Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came to save sinners, of whom I am the worst. 1 Timothy 1:15."_

* * *

The Common Floor was quiet that early on a Sunday morning. Steve was fiddling with the buttons on the sleeves of his suit coat, waiting for Bucky to get dressed and come down.

There was a soft pastel vase of flowers in the center of the glass coffee table; definitely Pepper's touch, to celebrate the spring. Steve plucked a flower head off the bouquet and carefully slid it into his lapel pocket.

Natasha sauntered past right at that moment and smiled. "Someone's looking fancy."

Steve smiled and straightened up. "It's Resurrection Sunday." He dusted off his slacks and stepped towards her. "Bucky agreed to come with me to church."

Natasha's smile changed slightly. "You really do still believe all that stuff, don't you?" she asked softly.

Steve nodded. "I do."

"Not many people still think like that," she said with a smile.

"That doesn't bother me as much as it used to." He smiled back, still kind, but firm.

Calculatedly expressionless, Natasha turned to look out the window at the spring skies. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "Some of it's a little far-fetched, don't you think?"

Steve shrugged. "Maybe." His gaze traced the sunlit edge of a line of cloud. "But as long as we're talking about miracles, well...he's not the only one I've seen come back from the dead."

Natasha looked into his eyes, deep green searching his face. "I worry about you, Steve," she whispered, her voice concerned. "The world is different. If you don't bend with the times, you might be broken by them."

Quiet and respectful, he answered, "Thank you. I'll learn and change where I can."

She hadn't stopped scrutinizing his face with her eyes.

Steve folded his hands behind his back and sighed. "But where something is true and has always been true...I can't compromise on that. And I won't."

Natasha smiled warmly. Reaching up to fix his collar, she said, "You know, if you set your mind to it, you could retire and become a preacher."

"I'm afraid I'd gain a cult of personality," he smirked.

"There are worse personalities to follow."

Steve shook his head and allowed himself a smile.

Natasha gave some small laughter, patted his shoulder, and turned away. "Well, happy Easter, Rogers," she said with a smile. "Since that's your thing."

"Thank you," he answered.

Natasha walked away.

Steve sighed after her. He could almost hear his mother scolding him to have patience. He'd keep praying, and when it was time, he'd be ready. But in the meantime, he was going to have a good Easter Morning.

The elevator door opened, and Bucky stepped out, looking a little sheepish and unsure of himself in the suit coat and fumbling with the glove over his left hand. He looked up at Steve as if for assurance, and Steve beamed back.

"I'm not sure I did this right." Bucky stepped up to his side and showed him the glove.

"Looks good to me, Buck." Steve adjusted his friend's lapels and sleeves slightly, then beamed at him. "Ready to go?"

Bucky took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile back on his face.

Because even after it all, after everything changes, some things still remain.

**THE END**

* * *

**A/N: *incoherent screaming* *falls over* *screams some more***

**IT'S DONE. HOLY COW.** You guys have no idea how hard it was to crank this thing out. I've had the idea floating around for months, if not years, and finally settled down with a script this summer, and when I sat down to write it I got_ freaking sick_ the worst that I have in a long time and most of this was written in a single day because I couldn't go to work and long story short this has just been a huge ride from start to finish. But it's done, oh my word, it's done, and I really hope you all enjoyed it.

**Freakin' long authors notes incoming, since this is a freakin' long story!**

The Bible translation Steve would have been familiar with would probably have been the King James Version, since the New International Version wasn't published until 1973 while Steve was taking a nap in the Arctic. Personally, I prefer the NIV, and most of the verses in this fic are quoted out of that translation because it's easier for me to write and you to understand, but given Steve's penchant for nostalgia, I'm sure he would have emotional attachments to the KJV.

Steve would also probably not like my church. It is a big church, with big lights, and loud contemporary music. I had the pleasure of attending a little Lutheran church with my best friend while I was in South Korea. It was very cute. They had a projector, not hymnals, but the music staff was up on the screen with the words so that's basically like projecting a hymnal. The church where my homeschool group has choir and orchestra performances is also a Lutheran church, and it has hymnals. I think Steve would like that better.

I've got some strong feelings about the whole "blaming God for bad stuff" business. Personally, it's against my conscience to do it, but I understand if maybe you just need to vent to somebody about what's going on and God is the safest person. In any case, He's man enough to take your flailing emotions and false accusations, but I just think it's kinda mean to pin stuff on Him that isn't his fault. That's just my take, though. I feel like Steve would have a similar take. But it's not doctrine. King David made a habit of yelling at God about stuff. Pretty much did it for half the psalms. Go ahead and read those if you ever need a good vent. Good stuff.

Natasha is not here because I wanted to have an antagonist. If she seems like an antagonist, I have not done my job. Natasha is here because she, out of all the Avengers (except maybe Tony), represents the most opposite ideology to Steve's, and their relationship is good enough that I can have some fun bouncing their differing worldviews off of each other. She's like a conduit for the worldview of the culture at large, but packaged in a character that we and Steve both like.

I have nothing to say about Bucky's part in this story. Nothing to say except FEELS

Do I have all of the Bible verses in this story memorized? Well yes, but actually no. I was in two different Bible-memorization competition programs as a kid and came away still _woefully_ incapable of remembering references, so I had to google a lot of these based on the words I actually recalled. But hey, what's important is the meaning behind the words anyway. Here's a list of the passages mentioned or quoted, just in case you needed it: John 3:16, Jeremiah 29:11, Galatians 6:9, Ecclesiastes 4:11-12, Luke 15, Timothy 2:19a, Matthew 26-28, John 1:29, Romans 10:9, Matthew 28:6, Romans 8, 1 Timothy 1:15. Knock yourself out.

There is honestly so much more I could write about Steve and Bucky and how they deal with things based on their faith—the whole Thanos debacle is probably the most interesting one, too bad that doesn't exist in the Remembered AU, LOL—but I think I covered all the major themes I wanted to for their characters, and let's be honest, this fic is unwieldy enough as it is.

**Merry Christmas, everybody. Wish for snow, give presents to your loved ones, and sing Jesus happy birthday. I'll see you all next year. Or sooner. I dunno. Bye!**

**Reviews are flower heads in suit lapel pockets.**


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